


Anywhere Beneath the Sun

by Timemidae



Series: Episode Related Mini-fics [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fix It, Gen, Illya's proletarian politics taken semi-seriously, In this house we love and appreciate Hank no-surname-sailor-guy, Labor Day, The Yo Ho Ho and A Bottle of Rum Affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 13:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timemidae/pseuds/Timemidae
Summary: An update to the end of the Yo-Ho-Ho and A Bottle of Rum Affair, because that vessel is a floating OSHA violation and you can bet I'm salty about it.





	Anywhere Beneath the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I figure everyone gets to post one shameless political screed before they're ejected from the fandom. This is mine.

Like most successful, or at least relatively long-lived, secret agents, Illya Kuryakin was not in the habit of giving out his address. And so the letter, found crumpled at the back of a post-box that typically contained only life insurance adverts, supermarket coupons, and bills, was far from expected.

Holding it cautiously, he took it inside and set it on the kitchen table. It had evidently had a hard journey on its way; the envelope was stained and wrinkled, as though it had gotten wet at some point, and a smear of what looked like engine grease marred the back flap. The return address indicated a P.O. Box in LaPlace, Louisiana. To his knowledge, Illya was not acquainted with anyone in such a place. Even if he had been, all unanticipated deliveries were deeply suspect. Never let it be said that Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin didn’t learn from his mistakes. Letting the envelope lie, he threw open the window, then rummaged a moment in a drawer. Donning a pair of rubber gloves, he returned to the table and picked up the letter. There was some small, round object that shifted and rolled along the bottom of the envelope—a detonator perhaps? Holding the envelope as far from his face as possible, he slowly eased it open.

Hey Big Man,

How’s it hanging, shoreside? I know you said to only use this address if there was an emergency, but I just had to tell you.

Me and Scotty and the boys got to talking the other day, about what you’d told us ‘fore you left, about what to do if Capt. Morton

gave us any more trouble…

Oh no. No no no. What _had_ he told them?

The affair had been concluded with slaps-on-the-back and smiles all around. They’d docked in Hong Kong. It had seemed unfathomably rude to turn down a drink with the crew, his comrades of the past several days. But the ‘grog’ in the filthy sailors’ pub they’d taken him to had been stronger than he’d expected, and, the food on board being what it was, and the sea-air having never given him much of an appetite to begin with, he certainly hadn’t kept enough on his stomach to sustain a serious bout of drinking. And, he remembered, he’d been angry.

Napoleon had what Illya considered to be a particularly American optimism when it came to morality. To Napoleon, it was enough that a man do what was right at the final, crucial moment. He could have whatever foibles he pleased, as long as he made the right choice when it really, truly mattered.

But, didn’t it matter, what a person fed and paid their workers, all the humdrum days of their lives? Wasn’t it a choice, each day, to let them toil on a rattletrap ship, far from help, with an engine that could blow at any moment? To intimidate the crew until they believed that, for them, nothing better was possible?

Illya loved Napoleon for his faith in humanity. His belief, however strained, that, given the opportunity, anyone could change for the better. He’d just never expected Waverly to share the same outlook. He grimaced, as long as the individual in question was English, upper crust, and, well, clubbable.

It was true, in the post-combat euphoria, that Illya had offered Morton the captaincy back. Naïvely, he’d expected it to be something of a farewell tour. He couldn’t see any harm in letting the pompous ass steer them back to shore, before he traveled on to a peaceable retirement. However, they’d been met at the dock by Alexander, ‘Oh, would you care to work for us?’ Waverly.

So, he’d been angry, and more than a little drunk, and it seemed he’d given Hank and the crew some ideas. What had they done, blown up the ship? There was only one way to find out. He read on:

...about what to do if Capt. Morton gave us any more trouble, and about how the worker is the backbone of civilization, and

about how the bosses are just uppity stuffed-shirts (although, beg your pardon, that wasn’t exactly how you put it), and

about how Morton needed us more than we needed him, and we was owed certain rights and dignities.

Anyhow, it took some doing, but I’m writing you now as the representative of Chapter 347 of the Seafarers International Union.

We voted to organize last year, and now we’re working out a new contract, with higher pay, and regular safety inspections, and

no more tying folks to the mast just cause the Capt. don’t like ‘em. We even got the Capt. to buy Cookie a cookbook. Turns out

he can’t read any better than he can cook, but he’s improving every day, and we're all doing real well. 

Yours in brotherhood,

Hank

When Illya shook the envelope, a pin rolled out onto the table. Smiling, he stuck it through his lapel.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're enjoying the long weekend in the US, or if you've ever enjoyed any two-day weekend anywhere, thank your local labor movement. Happy Labor Day! 
> 
> Photo sourced from Ebay, via Wikipedia.
> 
> Title from 'Solidarity Forever,' lyrics by Ralph Chaplin:
> 
> When the union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run,  
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun


End file.
